


Weft and Warp

by thejerseydevile



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pokemon Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Codex Entries (Dragon Age), Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:33:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5503079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejerseydevile/pseuds/thejerseydevile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collected work of various Pokemon AU drabbles!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus implied: Roadside Battle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unorigelnal (jayburding)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jayburding/gifts).



> :') So this will be a collection of many different drabbles, with many different verses/characters--all connected by taking place in a Pokemon crossover AU--please check all chapter titles for relevant pairing/subject info!

In spite of Inquisition flags, the roads are far from safe.

Thankfully, years of careful Tevinter breeding see to it that Dorian and Ligea are more than ready for battle at a moment’s notice. Her magical support compliments Dorian's offensive capabilities as she uses her alluring song to raise everyone's spirits (And sometimes hasten their movements, but that’s a quibble about time magic and ethics for another day). Her songs are far more elegant than Cassandra’s war cries or the Bull's bellowing, that’s for sure; and though some may doubt the battle readiness of his preening companion, her abilities are bloody useful in a pinch.

Like now: ambushed upon the main road by a Red Templar flank attack.

After the first strike they seamlessly form up, the warriors—including their bloody stubborn mage of an Inquisitor—at the front, and Dorian slipping back for a better vantage point. Ligea does not need constant commands; instead she darts this way and that, the Altaria’s unwavering song keeping their guard up, and lending them all newfound strength. From the corner of his eye, Dorian clocks the positions of his teammates, notes the way their Inquisitor stands taller, launching a powerful barrage of spells that freezes the first wave of enemies in place for Cassandra to run clear through with her sword, shattering them to pieces.

Bull meanwhile, has gone ahead to handle the Templar reinforcements, roaring and swinging his giant maul down upon the head of a slavering Arcanine—it quickly goes down in a lump of fur and gore. It’s not the only one; there’s a whole pack of these "Red Dogs”—twice the size of the average hound and bristling with Red Lyrium sores—heading their way. Without a word, the Bull rushes to meet them, the Inquisitor and Cassandra on his heels. Dorian whistles sharply, twice, and Ligea flaps after them—weaving together another battle-song.

That leaves Dorian a space of time to prime a lightning cage that he raises to trap most of the pack—but there’s still three that charge through with gaping jaws and blank eyes. Bull’s got gauntlets on today so he grabs the first one that tries to get past him, hurling it bodily towards the others so that two Red Dogs go down in a snarling heap. Ligea zips in with a blast of cutting Fade-summoned wind to tear them to ribbons, the Inquisitor following up with another ice spell of their own to make _sure_ the beasts stay down.

Unfortunately, there's still the issue of the _third_ dog that got away from the Bull—zipping past Cassandra as it locks onto Dorian, and lunges forward with a gurgling snarl. But then—there's the smallest flash of fur—coral pink and soft, _impossibly_ soft--

And the Red Dog is brought to a screeching halt with a wicked spell of some sort, only to be slammed down to the ground. Bull is a walking fortress and it's no wonder that his Slyveon is the same, her eyes bright and glowing lyrium blue as she launches spell after spell, tinged with the distinct Fade energy that "fairy" types native to Orlais thrum with. Really, she’s no more than a pink puff of fur, but still, she stands protectively in front of Dorian, hackles raised and lips curled back over sharp little fangs.

Ligea, who knows better to stay well _away_ when the Sylveon launches her, finally comes to her familiar rest upon his covered shoulder when the hue and cry of battle dies down, nuzzling briefly against his cheek with a content little hum. And when she's sure that her much larger, heavier and rabid opponent has long gone cold, Bull’s Sylveon pads over to Dorian's side, her tail wagging for a job well done and looking for a skritch behind her ear. He indulges her—just this once—hopefully while Bull can’t see, far up ahead and probably helping the Inquisitor and Cassandra deal with the grim work of looting. A gentle scratch behind one of those big, ridiculously floppy ears, and that should be the end of it.

"Ha, ha! The best _dog_ always gets them in the end!" Bull bellows from ahead, utterly fond of his little companion—and of course, utterly fond of _teasing_ Dorian.

“We already went over this: Eevee and their evolutions are not part of the Canini, they’re _Vulpini_!” Dorian retorts back sharply in reply; and there’s some comfort in their usual banter, a sure sign that all’s well after the scuffle.


	2. Codex Entry: A Journal in the Witchwood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: There's a mildly unsettling image linked at the bottom of the Codex entry; it's meant to sort-of fit in with the DA-style of demonic imagery, but it definitely is a bit of a departure from my usual art :')

**_A Codex entry, taken from pilfering around the Rebel Mage Camp in the Witchwood of the Hinterlands:_ **

 

Today marks my two hundredth day of FREEDOM.

Let the Inquisition and its Chantry dogs come for us--we are UNSTOPPABLE.  
  
We will NEVER submit.

 

_The next paragraphs are illegible, scratched out and written over with large swatches of ink--these are the last clear notes crammed into one corner_

  
We escaped, and then we killed them **all** at the Crossing on our madcap run across the Free Marches. It was what we wanted, but we couldn't stop and celebrate, either.  
  
However, I convinced we survivors to wait, so that I could skin good old Rex--for Elliot, Dayna, and Hasmal, and because we were heading to Fereldan and I knew it would be cold. It was glorious, that first night--even in death, old Rex’s mangy pelt was warm and we didn't have any blankets, so why not make use of a good pelt...  
  
But after that first night I started to have the dreams.

It'd be just my rotten luck that I'd have an Arcanine haunting me for the rest of my days.

I tell him every night to sod off.

The other night, he warned that the Inquisition was on its way. He offered me _freedom_ if I promised to surrender on the morrow. But Desmond is itching for a fight--the fight of our lives.

So I told him to sod off yet again, and when I went down to sleep the next day, he wasn't there anymore.

I'm free.

And yet I cannot help but think that  
  
wherever in the Maker damned Void Rex and the rest of them were sent to rot

they're laughing at me

~~Maybe they won in the end. Maybe I should have said yes to old Rex, though with those damned eyes, he couldn't have been anything but a demon~~

 

[ _Scribbled at the end of this journal entry is the grisly depiction of an Arcanine, the favored companion of Southern Templars. Somewhat of an odd addition, the beast seems to have six eyes--one set of three on each side of its face…_ ](https://41.media.tumblr.com/bbd05c7d7ce60cb8e8bc833172f93231/tumblr_nzugdvnrnr1rydp4eo1_540.png)


	3. Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus: Token of Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On wishing for safe travels through highly symbolic and sentimental gifts.

Several months into their extended dalliance, and the Bull is inevitably called away on some Charger business that actually requires his physical presence. Uneventful stuff, really. But what is truly remarkable is the decision that Dorian makes the moment Bull slips from his (their) room.

 

Later, Dorian catches the mercenaries as they gear up for their trip, fussing about around the stables with packs and mounts. He receives some form of acknowledgement, nods and grunts and even a cheerful greeting of “Morning, _Hothouse_!” as he idly picks his way towards the Bull.

 

It’s not like he’s easy to miss; he stands as the only qunari out of the bunch adjusting the straps on his monster of a draft hors. And of course, there’s Sylvie, his constant, little shadow, already tucked up on the saddle and waiting to set off. Her ears prick up, and she spots Dorian first—tail wagging in enthusiastic greeting—so that Bull has to turn towards the mage with a greeting of his own.

 

“Dorian!”

 

“Good morning, Bull.”

 

Of course, once he’s there at his side, Dorian cannot help but pause. He finds himself caught up in the warmth found in the way he _smiles_ —anything and everything witty that could have been said in the moment vanishes in a puff of _affection_.

 

So there’s a beat or two where they stand like this: Iron Bull facing Dorian; Dorian staring up at the Bull. A second too long of contemplative silence where this _whole lot of something_ that is new and fledging stands between them.

“Well, here we are.”

 

Bull merely raises a brow.

 

“ _Yep_. Here we are.”

 

Whatever strange spell kept Dorian so tongued-tied is lifted and the banter flows through, easily.

 

“Quite. I just thought—as you will be traveling on the high pass, while there’s _still_ a chance of snow, _do_ take care—“

 

“Wait. Are you seeing me off, big guy? Aww.”

 

A sigh.

 

“Must we?”

 

“Of course! _Teasing_ is kind of our Thing.”

 

It’s not meant to be an innuendo, but the Bull waggles his brows at him for good measure. For the life of him, Dorian cannot precisely pinpoint why this only encourages that growing kernel of affection, but _here we are_.

 

“If that’s the case, then I shan’t keep you any longer,” he says, all haughty flash but no fire. They already made their rather extended and extraneous “good-byes” last night, after all. “Adieu, the Iron Bull; try not to get into too much trouble without me while you’re gone for the next week, yes?”

 

He turn swiftly on his heel to leave—the decision that drew him out here in the first place seeming more and more like something inconsequentially sappy and unnecessary. Small tokens of affection passed between lovers marching off to war are fine for Cassandra’s favored books; entrusting a lover with a Pokemon even further within the realm of foolish sentimentality. And that should be the end of that, but then the Bull decides to open his big mouth and say:

 

“I’ll be too busy pining for you to even think about any sort of mischief.”

 

It’s light, gentle teasing—nothing out of the ordinary for them. Bull said it himself; it’s been their Thing. And there are a million and one ways to answer back, ways to twist it into another innuendo or a pun to have the mercenaries that bustle around them laughing. But instead he turns back slowly—regarding the Bull, the shape he makes, hard lines and unexpected softness, and that decides for him.

 

“Pining for me? Oh. We cannot possibly have _that_ …”

 

Then he raises two fingers to his lips and whistles twice sharply—and quick as an arrow, in a bundle of sky-blue feathers and cottony down, zips in his Ligea to come to rest upon his covered shoulder. Her sharp little talons dig into the leather, and she coos softly into his ear in warm greeting. But, she raises her head to tilt it ever so slightly to the side.

 

Two sharp whistles was a distinct command for her now after a year into working with the Inquisition: _protect our teammates_.

 

Just a glance from Ligea to the Bull has the Altaria taking wing again, this time settling her weight on Bull’s left shoulder and his heavy pauldron. He easily adjusts to her weight, but he only has eyes for Dorian, his expression hard to read, exactly. In turn, Dorian does his best to school his own features, lest he seem too eager, or anxious even about this gift.

 

“I think there will be less reason to miss me with Ligea around to hurl fireballs every so often, don’t you think?” He asks lightly. As if in agreement, Ligea trills, and makes a point to scrub her cheek to Bull’s.

 

There’s perhaps a hundred witty and clever things the Bull could say in response—or he could very well reject Ligea’s company, perhaps laughing off Dorian’s concern—which would be acceptable. But it’s not just Dorian who has surprising depths of the unexpected.

 

Their eyes meet and the Bull raises his mauled hand with infinite care, to scratch underneath Ligea’s chin.

 

“… Yeah. Can’t think of a better spitfire to have watching my blind spot. I’ll be happy to have her come with, if that’s alright with you?”

 

“ _Yes_! I mean—yes. With my full support, and blessing. Besides, she needs the exercise after being cooped up here for _so_ long, and no promises that our Inquisitor would take us out to the field any time soon.”

 

“Aww, you sure know how to make a guy feel special, Dorian,” Bull drawls, then he spares Ligea a glance and a one-armed shrug. “So, ready for a scouting run with the boys, Ligs?”

 

He grins—and it only widens into “shit-eating” territory at Dorian’s immediate huff at the sound of that accursed nickname—but Ligea bobs her whole body in an avian approximation of a nod. She’s been given an order, and she’ll follow through; she’s good like that.

 

But best of all—the Bull had _accepted_ Dorian’s proposed token—care and protection in absence—and that part of him that had felt so bold to set forward this plan in the first place, burns with the chance for _more_.

 

“Safe travels, Bull.”

 

“With Sylvie and Ligea around? I’ll be back sooner rather than later. Promise." 


	4. Dorian, Fafnir Adaar: On the Storm Coast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shamelessly fluffy short mostly for Jay and our multi-Inquisitor verse ;)
> 
> Also: In our headcanon for this AU at least, Pokemon are harvested for their fur and scale and probably consumed as a source of food, so there's some light mention of that here

He doesn't have the heart to tell him that he once had the finest, softest alchemic work gloves made from _thirty_ Pachirisu.

As it stands, Fafnir Adaar’s newest companion isn't big enough to even be considered for a lightning essence buffer-cloth. The little thing looks even tinier now that it’s curled up in the palm of his hand. But there is nothing to fear here as Fafnir patiently slips it chokeberries, watching with utter delight as the creature chatters happily and gobbles down each berry with little twitches of its tail and ears. Fafnir had admitted that they were rare in the Free Marches, but there seems to be pockets of them on the Storm Coast, flickering through the tree tops--or in the case of this little one, falling out of them due to their fight with a great big bear, and a ‘well-aimed’ charge by Cassandra that had said bear careening into a nearby tree.

(The Seeker is a magnet for these sorts of things: cute monsters and bigger, less cute monsters)

"And they don't get any bigger, you said?" He asks Dorian, all wide-eyed wonder directed to his new Pachirisu. Idly, Dorian wonders what the simpering nobles that clog up Skyhold’s great hall would think of their big, “scary” Tal-Vashoth mercenary all but awed by the size of a _Pachirisu_ , of all things.

"Well, I'm sure the ones kept in fur farms are bred to be pretty sizable for harvesting--"

Dorian does not miss the way Fafnir suddenly clutches it closer to his chest--the electric-squirrel squeaks in protest but tellingly doesn't move to escape. Tangled up in Fafnir's horns after being chucked out of a tree and not eaten but instead _offered_ food, has no doubt bought its loyalty for life. Fafnir's Houndoom, Frekki, has also smartly stayed well out of sight, curled up with her sibling around the fire that the Seeker and Inquisitor Reginn Adaar have built up--so the Pachirisu has surely solidified the notion that Fafnir is a protector of sorts.

Even if that means protecting his new charge from an ally—Fafnir shoots him a wounded look, as he tucks his new Pokemon underneath his chin.

So Dorian smiles and holds up his hands in a placating gesture.

"—Now, now, I’m not suggesting that we turn our new friend here into an electricity resistant tea-cozy! But there are other uses for a Pachirisu, I’m sure. For example, imagine if some unsavory sort comes up to shake your hand—with particularly ill intentions of some sort—but then, _zap_! They're shocked by the surprise guard-beast hidden up your sleeve."

 

His words have the intended effect; Fafnir relaxes so that he offers Dorian a smile in return that is _far_ too sweet, his new Pachirisu chattering softly and content.


	5. Codex Entry: A Horse Master's Notes on the Ignis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just something light; Master Dennet is one of my favorite NPCs. Also I do have a fondness for Rapidash.

**_A Codex entry, unlocked upon the purchase of an Ignis from the stables, or when caught in the wild (or stolen from the encamped Venatori) on the Western Approach and the Hissing Wastes  
_ **

****

Now an Imperial Warmblood is a magnificent sight, but did you know that back in Tevinter they’re considered ordinary? Makes sense when you set your eyes on one of these beauties: this is a _Celeri equo ignis_ , known in the Marches as a "Rapidash", and shortened to just the “Ignis” out here. Once the favored mounts for traveling caravans and merchant princes, getting your hands on one can be an expensive endeavor nowadays, for several reasons. The ‘Vints have put a block on the export of 'em, there was an issue a while back with perfectly good Ignis lines slaughtered for “unicorn horn” powder and even if you have purebred stock, every so often a mating pair of Ignis will produce a non-flammable foal that can be sold as an Imperial Warmblood and technically be correct. 

So owning an Ignis is a rare and impressive show of money and power—but an Ignis is more than just a trophy. They’ve got a lot of spirit, are battle-ready _and_ at full gallop, the Ignis’ hooves barely touch the ground. They’re not a horse for the faint of heart—I _mean_ it when I say they’re wicked fast—and will happily test their limits to see how well their rider can handle them; they’ve been known to gleefully throw off the unsuspecting, unpracticed rider and in some cases, even _burn_ them.

 

Also, I see the way you’re frowning now, Inquisition, and I can assure you that while the flames are an intimidating sight they can be stabled with the rest of the herd--seems an Ignis can burn a rider it doesn't like but not mess its own stall. How does it work? Go ask one of the mages about it, though you’ll probably get some “head in the Fade” response that makes no sense at all, so I just wouldn’t question it.

 


	6. Josephine Montilyet: A Ghost Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn that the Montilyets live rather peacefully with their past ghosts.

Every great house has their ghosts—or so said Laurien and Antoine, just to make Yvette cry at night. Josephine was swift to scold and soothe ruffled feathers, but at the same time, she couldn’t precisely say they were wrong.

The Montilyet family _did_ live with the specter of their infamous past life and impressive fleet, long since dashed upon the rocks and lying now beneath churning waves. But of more _pressing_ concern was the mischievous poltergeist that _also_ called their Antivan mansion home.

The usual things happened in the presence of their dearly beloved _casa fantasma_ : chairs skittering across the floor, levitating fruit bouncing merrily down the hall, manic laughter at odd hours of the night followed by all the western wing doors slamming shut. Not terribly frightening stuff, more on the somewhat irritating and inconvenient side, all things considered.

But what was truly infuriating was that no one sought to do _anything_ about the aforementioned house ghost.

In fact, she knew that the servants left _food_ out for it, though its gratitude usually came in the form of an overturned bowl and a trail of ants—and on one memorable occasion—the dining room tables arranged lovingly into a leaning tower. She had wondered, once, if it was a ghost or a demon, with its horrid little antics, but then there was the day when she watched as her Papa’s Zafiro, out sunning himself by the pond in the front yard of their manse, was hit repeatedly by several levitating apples and the battle-scarred Samurott did _nothing_ to stop it.

Thus, young Josephine concluded that the ghost wasn’t necessarily a problem.

Of course, all of this would have been laughed off, ignored and shelved away in the same way that the rest of the household had taken to their ghost problem, if it had not struck close to home. One day, she was having the time of her life, with exciting lessons, a _merienda_ complete with her favorite chocolate treats, and warm praise from her dance and etiquette instructors. It would have ended beautifully with a few private hours before dinner, perhaps spent in her room upon her nook curled up with a book, or some time spent playing with and rearranging her dolls…

… But upon entering her chambers what did she find but everything in complete and utter disarray: books scattered, her dolls flipped upside down and strewn every which way—and the culprit only gave itself away with a sudden chill that crept passed her, along with gleeful sniggering that preceded the sound of every other hallway door slamming shut.

Thus far, the ghost had been cordial enough to limit its pranks to public places, and her brothers (who often set their Pokemon snuffling around to try and find the ghost when cooped up inside the house for far too long), but this—this was crossing whatever silent agreement kept the ghost from invading their personal spaces.

So, she asked her mother about the ghost one day, a child of no more than seven years old, with her hands on her hips and a furrowed brow.

“Mama, why don’t we just send it away?”

“Send what away, my darling?”

“The house ghost. Papa’s Zafiro is extremely strong and can blast the ghost away with water! Even Laurien and Antoine can try with Agudo or Amargo if they have help from the gamekeeper _and_ the beast master to track it down. Or maybe we can even call in a Chantry Mother,” she insisted. But her mother bent down to her height and offered a small, wry little smile.

“Would that we could, but your father would have strong words about that.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because the ghost comes with the house, a permanent guest, if you will. And as long as the Montilyet family lives and breathes, so too will that ghost stay right here, where it _belongs_.”

At a young age, Josephine already had some understanding for words, and the weight behind words. The ghost is a guest that _belongs_ here; there would be no use to try to ask for an exorcism, so, she’d have to approach dealing with the ghost from another angle. And, as a young child more than aware of word games and how adults navigated their world through careful diplomacy, she, too, sought to negotiate.

So, she pretended to be a beast master—though she still did not have a companion of her own, and in truth, wasn’t as interested in the owning and keeping of one as her siblings were—and went on her very own ghost hunt. She followed the trail of destruction and mischief it was prone to leave behind—until it appeared in her room again. Carefully she eased the door open, just a crack, to peek inside, and had caught it with its grubby paws juggling her dolls.

It was a strange sort of ghost—she did not expect one to be so _purple_ —but she steeled herself and flung open her bedroom door to cry:

“That’s not _yours_!”

The ghost did not stop juggling her toys and only turned ever so slightly towards her—pearly white teeth stretched wide in a ghastly grin, its red eyes focused only on her. Josephine merely crossed her arms and puffed herself up, emulating her Mama and her governess whenever they caught the boys red-handed at one of their pranks.

“You’re supposed to ask if you want to play with someone else’s toys,” She scolded, growing bolder and fiercer as she gained momentum for her argument. “Just like you should _ask_ if you want to move the chairs around, or slam the door or laugh and laugh in the middle of the night. My Mama says you belong here in this house, just like us, the Montilyets, but that doesn’t mean that you can be naughty and get away with it!”

The juggling stopped and now the ghost was merely balancing all of her dolls upon its head. It seemed terribly amused by this turn of events, and pointed at Josephine with one clawed paw, then at itself, and then at the dolls—cackling all the while. Josephine waited patiently for it to stop its laughter.

“Did you understand me, _casa fantasma_?”

It stood on one leg and did a twirl.

“If you want to stay here, you need to behave. I understand that there are things that ghosts need to do, just like there are things that we need to do, like go to school and go to dance and manners lessons, but there are right ways to go about it. And as a welcomed guest you can do it, only if you _ask_.”

The ghost did not care one whit about Josephine’s call for peace and reason with careful words, and was now bouncing about the room, still balancing her precarious doll pile upon its head. So, she had to try a new angle; and where diplomacy didn’t work, bribery usually had a more fruitful outcome.

“… I have lemon drops.”

The ghost came to a complete halt, planted both of its feet upon the ground and tilted its head ever so slightly to the side; the doll pile wobbled but leaned to the side with it. Now that Josephine had its full attention she held out her hand, where she offered precisely one lemon drop.

“If you won’t behave to be nice then, I promise you this: I will hand you one lemon drop for every day that you _don’t_ make a mess of my room. Is that clear?”

The ghost blinked.

“And as I understand and respect that you are a ghost and must be naughty, I promise to give you _two_ lemon drops if you promise to _clean up_ after you make your messes.”

The ghost considered, really considered, hemmed and hawed about it, with its doll pile sitting upon its head and a clawed paw tapping at its chin and thought. Josephine could admit, that now that she had gotten a good look at it, it seemed… well. It wasn’t scary. The purple coat of spiky fur was surprising, and now that it tilted its head this way and that, it seemed _cute_ enough.

She steeled herself not to smile, though; they were in the middle of negotiations and she was determined to win it.

And then, much to her surprise and disappointment, the ghost _disappeared_.

But the doll pile remained levitating in the air, so it must have been around and about; her suspicions were confirmed when the pile began to float, rather gently, to the side. She wasn’t quite sure what to expect—perhaps the ghost was readying to fling them over while finding a good spot, that would be something that Antoine would do, truthfully—but no, it was heading towards the little shelf that belonged to her dolls alone, slowly and carefully placing them _back_. And then other little scatterings around her room was tidied up—papers and books shuffled into neat little piles, things flying through the air only to be placed gently upon shelves or her desk; not where they belonged exactly but it was an improvement.

Josephine could not suppress her smile, then.

“Thank you very much!” she shouted out to her empty, and somewhat cleaner room. She glanced around, hoping that the ghost would show itself again, but everything had gone still, and quieter, so perhaps it was not ready to make another appearance?

But then, she felt it, a sudden chill, and then it stood before her, its paw held out towards her. For a job well done it more than deserved its reward, so Josephine eagerly handed over the lemon drop she held in her hand, then began to pat at her pockets.

“Do you see? This is how you can be a nice guest; as long as you make your messes and clean up after yourself, then it’s not _so_ bad—“

But when she glanced up again to hand over its second lemon drop, and much deserved reward, the ghost was _gone_.

 

*~*~*

 

Zafiro remained curled up in the corner, though he raised his bristly snout to snuffle at the air briefly, before laying his head back down again. Yves did not glance up from his notes, his quill scratching merrily across parchment

“Ah, there you are.” He greeted their ghost absently. “I was wondering where you went off to; a visit to the kitchens perhaps?”

In response, the Gengar said nothing; but a little lemon drop found its way placed gently upon the corner of his desk.

“Oh, is that a lemon drop? Valrien just came back from the market with a small tin of those. A fine candy, lemon drops, don’t you think? Be sure to thank our valet for being so generous and sharing one with you—and I don’t mean by flinging his shoes into the fountain again.”

Of course, Yves knew that wasn’t true; Josie hoarded _her_ lemon drops fiercely like a dragon in its den, and any and all that Valrien brought back with him from the market more or less ended up within her clutches. But he was curious—not because he could _speak_ to the creature (that was the gift of dwarves and elves, according to stories anyway)—but because, in their long years of partnership, he’d grown to understand it some. Hard not to, when it literally had been living in his shadow ever since he was eight years old and the first assassin strike on his life would have truly ended the Montilyet line, if not for the Gengar who spent a dinner party destroying all the cups and glasses, until it eventually sprang upon a suspicious guest and well—the end of _that_ story isn’t exactly for polite company.

So: The Gengar must have paid Josephine a visit. It knew the tradition very well, that sooner or later, he would hand over its summoning seal to his heir apparent, and he would need to instruct his dear Josephine on how to work _with_ it as a stalwart guard.

“Right. Well then, it’s back to work for me, and I suppose to you, too? Or are you going off on another one of your little patrols? Take Zafiro with you if you do so, the _old_ oaf needs a walk.”

Zafiro snorted and rolled over onto his side from his corner, huffing indignantly. The Gengar passed the Samurott a glance, and, while its back was turned, gave Yves a sly little grin; one last prank before it resumed its role of stalwart protector. Yves merely raised a brow back at it, and watched as the Gengar stuck its tongue out at Zafiro—chattering something that made the Samurott huff and snort in anger. But before Zafiro could do so much as snap at it in retaliation, the Gengar cackled and melted into the floor.

It was always a strange sensation when the family Gengar did this little trick—a strong sudden blast of _cold_ , something briefly unsettling. But there was comfort, too, in knowing that there was another pair of eyes—fiercely loyal eyes at that—to lurk and remain undetected, focused on guarding his back. Zafiro could only do so much, after all, especially now that there was more gray on his muzzle.

Now, back to business, he shifted to look over his papers and forms, quill madly scratching at the surface—and beyond Zafiro’s soft snuffling snores, the Gengar remained unusually _quiet,_ and the little lemon drop did not so much as stir for the rest of the afternoon…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Ghost Pokemon are rare and unusual to own, beyond being a Mortalitassi anyroad. There's a history there for why the Gengar has stuck around for that long, but nonetheless it's here to stay. Also, beyond the ghost that literally lives with them--and because themed Pokemon teams are a thing--as a gesture towards their past lives (and future hopes) of owning an impressive fleet of vessels, (almost) all of the Montilyets have at least one Water Pokemon ;) Agudo is a Totadile and Amargo is a Froakie, and I can easily imagine Yvette with a fluffy little Eevee, and eventually, an elegant Vaporeon.
> 
> Also if you want to see more of this AU, please visit thejerseydeviledoodleblog on tumblr! ;) I lurk around the Dragon Age tag to reblog as much Pokemon AU stuff as I can find and post art heh


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